give up shallying, on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
it's but an exaggeration to point out hate
when clearly it wasn't my poem but myself
that lay on literature's butcher-block altar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
written well; great to read you